


quirk #9 of bacchus

by forochel



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-17
Updated: 2008-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel





	quirk #9 of bacchus

Edmund wakes up one morning to wine-stained sheets and a blinding headache. The headache might not be quite so blinding if not for the open window that Bacchus has left for him. Edmund wonders, very briefly, where the curtains are, before deciding that it isn't worth the mental effort. He moans and turns to bury his aching head in the pillows when the doors snick open and -

“Oh, my,” Susan says, sounding entirely too amused, “I suppose 'wild night' takes on a whole meaning for you, Edmund.”

“Kill me now,” Edmund says into his pillows.

The bed dips slightly as Susan seats herself (rather gingerly) at the edge of his bed, and then she pulls the pillow off his head. “I think not, brother.” Susan says reprovingly, and bats his hand away as Edmund snatches at another pillow.

“Ughh. Curtains?” Edmund says as he burrows into Susan's side, for lack of anywhere else to hide from the nefarious sunlight.

Susan hums as she looks around, and then she laughs and smacks Edmund lightly on the shoulder.

“Torn up and looking absolutely _filthy_ on the floor, little brother. For shame!”

Edmund says something very rude to Susan's waist, so she pushes him hard. And he rolls onto the floor in a clatter of heavy limbs, with a loud curse.

“Such bad language, too! We will have to send you to Calormene, my dear, for lessoning in etiquette.”

“I want to die. Kill me now. Tell Bacchus we'll never have sex in the Cair again. Or anywhere. Because I will be dead. I love you, Susan. Tell the others I love them too. Ugh.”

“Oh Edmund,” Susan huffed out in a sigh, “Always so dramatic. All right, sit up, I've got that potion that always works.” She knelt down and helped her brother up, politely averting her eyes, before handing him the smoking goblet.

Edmund manages to mumble something about Susan being Aslan-sent, before gulping down the contents in one long pull, shuddering, coughing, and then running to the attached bathroom to throw up. Susan silently hands him another goblet of cool water, and Edmund pours it down his throat like a man dying of thirst.

“A bath has been drawn up for you in the guest suite. But get dressed first!” She adds sharply as Edmund makes an incoherent noise of gratitude and makes for the door, completely naked. “No need for more scandal.”

Susan chivvies him into a loose pair of robes, out of the door, down the corridors, and into the bath. Edmund sighs as he sinks back into the hot water, and Susan laughs gently as she closes the door behind her.

“Never before have I seen him thus after a tryst with Bacchus, Firefoot,” she says to the chameleon perched on her shoulder. Firefoot hisses his agreement, “My lord has never failed to notice my presence before. Though in all fairness, your Highness, your dress' shade of grey is particularly easy to imitate.”

 

iiiii

 

When Edmund surfaces from his fifth dunking, the room is heavy with the heady musk of Bacchus' sex and skin, condensed into the steam and curling round his skin. He smiles, eyes closed contentedly, the headache receding as arousal stirs low in his gut.

“Mm, Bacchus.” He greets.

“So careless, Little King,” Bacchus purrs from where he lounges on the window sill. “Foolish to trust me like this.”

Edmund breathes deeply and arches his back sensuously as he stretches.

“What can I do to stop you, mine lover? I have no defences against your magics. If you should choose to flay me alive with ivy leaves, or choke me with nothing but your thickest wines, or poison me with them – what is there that I may do to you?”

There is a pause; it is a familiar one, weighed with all the secrets that Bacchus must keep and Edmund is determined to unearth. And then there are clinking sounds as Bacchus slides from the window to the wooden shelves, carved with his image, and plays with the vials of bathing oils there.

“Why do you not use your oils, Edmund?” Bacchus asks, before long fingers, wet and almost dripping with scented oils slide into Edmund's wet hair, and thumbs press into the hollows behind the tips of Edmund's ears, massaging the pain and tension away – an apology, almost.

Edmund lets his head be cradled by Bacchus' hands, and smiles cheekily.

“I was waiting for you. You couldn't have possibly resisted me: wet, naked, fragile, and at your mercy.”

Bacchus laughs, wild and scornful, “Such arrogance! And yet I am here – are you a soothsayer, then, little king?”

He tugs, and Edmund's head falls back against the preternaturally hot skin of Bacchus' abdomen as Bacchus slides his fingers down past Edmund's jaw; Edmund's neck; Edmund's chest; their lips lock in an upside-down kiss that tastes of sunlight and clear, golden elderberry wine. It is a sweet morning kiss that turns into something else when Edmund reaches up to clench his fingers in Bacchus' curly hair; he allows his mouth to be plundered, taken by Bacchus' questing tongue, searching out and licking into every crevice and sensitive spot in his mouth.

“Mmm, my Edmund,” Bacchus sighs as he pulls away, steps out of his loincloth and into the lukewarm water of the bath, “I would that we were in my glade,” and slides into Edmund's willing arms, knees spread over Edmund's thighs, “and that we were soaking in my clear pools, the sun on our backs,” a pause, as Bacchus presses himself closer to Edmund, rolling his hips in slow, maddening circles against Edmund, “or -” he swallows Edmund's little moans and mewls of need in a quick succession of wine-stained kisses, breathes hearty red wine into Edmund's mouth, “or the sun on your back, through the cool water as we _rut_ against each other, you moving deep, so deep within me, the currents curling around us – sensuous caresses, nothing like the tamed, dead water of your baths, mmmm...” Bacchus trailed off into a wanton moan of delight as Edmund's fingers, clumsily slicked with oil push against him.

“Edmund,” Bacchus purrs even as Edmund works his fingers inside of him, his silky voice roughened into a throaty growl as Edmund curls his fingers, scissors them, adds another one, “Edmund, we could do this under the stars, we could do this where anyone could see you, their J-Just King,” and his breath hitches, as Edmund's fingers find and press insistently against his prostate, even though Bacchus has no need of breath. “They could see us like this, my thighs spread like a maenad for you, in the bow of a mighty oak. Nothing holding u-ahhhhhhhh,” his breathy moan sharpens into a wild scream as Edmund hooks his fingers and rubs against his prostate in a rhythm that matches the lazy movement of their hips, a scream that Edmund swallows greedily as he devours Bacchus' mouth. Only Bacchus' will and his distant headache stop him from coming in that moment.

He slides his fingers out of Bacchus when the god has ceased to shudder against him. There is a predatory look in Bacchus' eyes, the colour of lust, underneath his lowered lashes, and Bacchus pushes Edmund back to lean on the cool porcelain of the bathtub.

“I could do this too, on my green hillocks, in the cool breeze, in the scorching sun – in the rivers and lakes, I can do this -” and the rest of Bacchus' speech is lost to bubbles as Bacchus sinks beneath the water to take Edmund with his mouth. He teases Edmund with his tongue and butterfly kisses; reaches with fingers to stroke the sensitive skin behind his heavy sacs; every touch and lick brings Edmund baby steps closer to the edge, makes Edmund's cock harden and swell beyond the point of belief, almost enough to cause him pain – and the vibration of Bacchus' throat against his cock as Bacchus suddenly slips his soft lips over the head of Edmund's cock and right down to the base is enough to tip him over, if not for the slender fingers clenching tight around the base of his cock.

Edmund cannot tell if Bacchus is moaning, or laughing, but he cannot be bothered, as he whines in the back of his throat, and then yells incoherently as Bacchus teases him some more, dancing fingers over the sensitive skin of his abdomen, stroking fingers firmly down the insides of his thighs, pressing them cruelly behind his balls, but never letting him come. He is begging in whimpers and moans and screams when Bacchus finally pulls off him, licks the precome out of the slit quickly, and surfaces; he lunges forward to kiss him; he can taste himself on Bacchus' tongue and lips; their teeth clack together inelegantly, and Bacchus breaks this kiss for once, before -

“God,” Edmund breathes, “my god,” as Bacchus sinks back down onto him, oil-slicked and burning hot, dark dark eyes wide open and olive skin flushed, berry-darkened lips parted and Edmund cannot help himself – he shifts and Bacchus gasps into his mouth, hardens against their stomachs – and kisses Bacchus, meeting the god's heated gaze and holding it. Edmund's insides are molten and Bacchus' skin is fever-hot, but as Edmund makes to thrust up into that slick heat Bacchus holds his hips down, fingers slim but strong; his lips curl against Edmund's, - “your god, Arrogance?”

“Yes, mine – my god, my Bacchus, Bacchus,” Edmund whispers fervently against damp skin; hisses prayers and adulation as Bacchus rides him; worships Bacchus' tawny skin with tongue and teeth; marks his god with bruises from his fingertips. Water slops over the rim of the bathtub as Bacchus loosens his fingers and clenches around Edmund, who comes with a strangled shout and a violent twist and shove of hips that brings Bacchus over the edge again with a roughened whoop of joy.

They lay there, panting and revelling in each other, and Edmund is dislodging Bacchus from his lap when there is a sharp knock on the door, and Susan's voice says, “Are you quite done yet? Only breakfast is waiting.”

Edmund winces and Bacchus laughs, before climbing out of bathtub with easy grace, and calls out to Susan, “Your brother is ready for your collection, Gentle Queen.” He turns then to Edmund and pulls him close, nosing along the side of his face, but his eyes are fixed expectantly on Edmund's. Edmund says, “Not within these walls, ever again.” Bacchus nods sharply, a satisfied gleam in his eye, and goes out of the window stark naked and still glistening wet.

 

iiiii

 

Peter, Susan, and Lucy are seated cosily in the sitting room and eating breakfast when Edmund walks in, wrapping The Just about him like a second, protective skin. This, unfortunately, is not enough to deter Lucy from innocently enquiring, “Did you hurt yourself in the bath, Ed? Only you were yelling so” or Peter, the good and pious High King of Narnia from muttering over his teacup, “Cork in the walls – deadens sound”, while Susan daintily eats her crumpet and twinkles knowingly at Edmund.


End file.
